Iris by Ingram Crockett


Whence eamest thou, Goddess, in satiny purple,
Out of the hidden ways into the blossoming
Beauty and Song of this Temple of April?
Yesterday scarce was a hint of thy coming,
Dreary the skies and the earth-paths as dreary —
Now thou art come and with thee the thrilling
Heart-beats immortal of love and of dreaming,
And visions of white in a region of azure
And silent dark trees, and of glimpses of breakers
Sunbright and far, with a musical murmur —
And silvery paths of a strange invitingness,
Quickening the pulses and calling with fragrance
Of secrets outbreathed on the lips of red roses:
Of bosoms half veiled and of laughters like nectar
Down vistas of cypress, where, languidly straying,
The Wind of the South half-forgetful of Ocean
Is whispering still of a beauty unuttered.
Whence earnest thou? Ah, even now as I ask thee
I follow, I follow, in swift transformation,
To the wave of thy hand, to the glint of thy sandals
Inwrought as with sunlight, to the gleam of thy
To the flash of thy smile like the white dove of
A-flutter in poppies of passionate scarlet.
I follow, I follow, fleet-footed and glowing
With life that is fed at Pierian fountains,
Down ways that have heard not the footsteps of ages. 
Thou hast lured me and now thou shalt wait me,
Astarte, Deep in some grove, where thy silvery crescent 
Hangs in an ilex more splendid and stately  
Than any of earth, where blossom on blossom 
Of fragrance and color glow purpled with twilight,  
And the star of thy stars like a lily that's fallen 
In mirroring deeps lies fragrantly waiting 
The clasp of thy hand and the joy of thy image.